


Nine

by kres



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kres/pseuds/kres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He would go anywhere for a nine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [NoStraightLine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStraightLine/pseuds/NoStraightLine).

They drop the disguises at the door. Sherlock lost the accent in the taxi, and John started laughing even before they peeled off the curb.

“That was ridiculous, oh God,” says John now, shaking glitter out of his hair. His cheeks are flushed, and he still hasn’t quite caught his breath. “I thought it was overkill with the boots, but the shirt— Oh my God—”

Sherlock closes the door and drops the hideous fur coat on the motel bed with a flourish. The wig follows, and he sits to finally rid himself of the ridiculous boots. The laces take a bit of work to unwind. They are pink, and the glitter sticks to his fingers. He scowls.

“Not worth coming all the way up here, though,” says John, peeling off the leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair.

Sherlock snorts. “Oh, come on, John, it was at least a nine. I’d go anywhere for a nine.”

He has, in fact, crossed the Atlantic for a nine before. And an eight, at a time of great need. Seven, on one particular occasion, but he won’t divulge that, not easily. He tugs off one boot, gets to work on the other. His left side rewards him with a fresh, hot wave of pain, and he exhales carefully through his mouth. No reason to let John see.

“You should have told me,” says John, and Sherlock looks up.

John is standing by the mirror in the corner. He seems to be examining his nails, but he isn’t really looking at them. His fingers shine with blue glitter. There is some of it on his right sleeve, too. Sherlock stops unwinding the laces.

John looks sad.

It’s been five years, and Sherlock still isn’t very good at discerning the flavours of John’s sadness. But they’re neither of them good at this sort of thing; they agreed on that long ago. Sherlock turns back to his boots, pulls them off, and throws them under the bed. He flexes his toes – all day on high heels is bad for his arches; he’d kill for a foot massage right now. Needs must, though. He slips on his Oxfords. There, that’s better. 

“There was no point,” he says. _Why should I tell you what you already know?_

John hums. Acknowledged, but not agreeing. Sherlock stands up, walks over to the mirror, and stands behind John. 

“You let me lie to you,” says John, conversationally. “You let me believe she was dead.” He still doesn’t look at Sherlock, but rubs at the back of his hand instead. The blue glitter is coming off, leaving the skin beneath scratched red. Sherlock looks at John’s hand, at his small, strong fingers.

John held off two bodyguards today, single-handed, while Sherlock was on the floor getting kicked – providing distraction, he corrected John in the cab, but it hadn’t been, not intentionally – and Irene slipped out the back and disappeared with the documents. She will fax them over in three days, when the coast is clear. Or she won’t. Either way, that’s Mycroft’s problem right now. Sherlock has done his part, and this, here, is what a conclusion to a successful case looks like, when the adrenaline rush has worn off, the new injuries make themselves known, and the world is that much bleaker again. Now they need to go out, get something to eat. They’ve gone without for two days, and that’s too long for John.

Sherlock examines his clothes in the mirror. His jeans have stains. His shirt needs dry-cleaning. Or perhaps it needs to go straight into the bin. It is, admittedly, a very ugly shirt.

Next to him, John takes a deep breath, and sighs.

“I was surprised about Karen,” he says, and the sadness is gone, switched off like it’s never been there. Another thing not quite easy to discern, about John.

“Hm?” says Sherlock. The shirt will have to do, for now.

“Very— healthy kind of girl. Not her usual type.”

Sherlock adjusts his cuffs. “Irene doesn’t have a type. Unless you count her clients, in which case—”

He falls silent, because John has reached out and touched his collar.

“Oh, but she absolutely does.” John is still not looking at Sherlock’s face. He is looking at his own fingers at the topmost button of Sherlock’s ugly shirt.

“Brainy,” says John. He smiles, soft. The smile creases the skin around his mouth, but doesn’t erase the sadness from his eyes. “It’s the new sexy, remember?”

It’s hard to focus with John’s fingers so close to his skin. Sherlock swallows, then frowns. “Karen found the keys. That wasn’t— That wasn’t brains, John. That was luck.”

John smiles again, and flicks the button of Sherlock’s shirt open.

The breath Sherlock takes isn’t as steady as it should be. The touch of fingertips on his collarbone is nothing short of electric. 

Sherlock underwent an EMG once, just to find out what it felt like. Limbs, moving without his conscious involvement. Nerves, lighting up, sharp like someone had pulled hard on his hair. The dull pain, after.

This feels much like it, except this isn’t in the name of science. There isn’t a higher purpose. This—

This, between them, even after all these years, is taboo.

“But she knew what to do with them,” says John, quietly. “That’s brainy in my book.”

John flicks open a second button, parts the fabric, and pats it down to the sides.

Then he steps away.

“There. Now you look more like yourself.”

Sherlock looks in the mirror. The jeans are still stained. The ugly shirt still needs dry-cleaning. The skin at his neck, revealed now by the vee of his open collar, is flushed.

The pain in his side has sharpened, and migrated, from his ribs to the centre of his chest.

John turns away and gets his jacket from the hook by the door. Then he takes Sherlock’s Belstaff from the other hook and holds it out. Sherlock steps up on autopilot and takes it. John slips the key card into his pocket, pats himself down to check for his wallet.

Sherlock swallows.

“It was a nine, John.”

John looks at him, at his face this time, and studies him for a moment. Then he smiles again.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it was.” And he goes to open the door.


End file.
